Accidents Happen
by GiantPurpleRing
Summary: Lily has no idea what to think when she is appointed Head Girl. She's done nothing to deserve the title. She's even more suprised when James is appointed Head Boy-he DEFINETELY doesn't deserve the title. But what really shocks her is what happens later..


I beam at the clock hanging on the far wall behind me, just over the faces of my parents and sister. It has become kind of a ritual over the years, staring at that clock. Far preferable to the eyes of my mother or father, both of whom will be waving in front of misty eyes and shaking smiles, failing miserably in their efforts to cover the pain of losing me to the magical world—even if I write regularly, even if I'll be home for Christmas. Far preferable, too, to the eyes of my sister, empty as my parents' were emotional.

Mum and Dad, I know from six years of past experience, I'll miss. Petunia, I also know from six years of past experience, I will not.

In attempt to block out these melancholy thoughts that always seemed to leak into my skull anyway, I would stare at the clock instead of my family in my final farewell, jerking my head back to look in front of me as soon as I felt it wouldn't hurt their feelings and staring resolutely at the expanse of brick in front of me. It is as familiar as the good byes, but this has a much more friendly connotation. Were it not for the confusing and highly daunting prospect of having to walk through walls before I'd even stepped through castle doors my first year, I never would have met my best friend.

Who, hopefully, is on the other side.

Attempting to be subtle—never one of my strong suites—I cast a quick glance around me, trying to make sure in the crowd of muggles around me that nobody is paying any special attention. As usual, they aren't. Shocking it is, how oblivious they all can be. Especially, it seems, when it comes to redheads pushing shopping carts filled with a trunk, a cat, and a hulking birdcage with an owl inside it into a brick wall.

Really. You'd think somebody would notice that, wouldn't you?

But they don't and they never did, and before I know it I am on the other side and surrounded by a crowd of an entirely different sort, this one peppered with students I'd been alternately loving and loathing since the age of eleven and been aching to see again, for one last year of ruckus running rampant before we all are forced to at least pretend we've become adults. I begin to wedge my cart between them, trying to get to the train and find a compartment before they all filled up and I was forced to sit with first years—again.

Granted, I'm not going to be spending much time in my compartment this year.

As I wedge, I keep my head craned for any familiar Gryffindor faces. Before long I find Remus Lupin and Sirius Black, chatting casually and leaned against the train. Remus, ever the gentlemen, ambles over as soon as we make eye contact, threading his way easily through the circus of screeching birds, nagging mothers, and howling children until we stand face to face. "How've you been, Evans?"

My reply—some boring mumble along the line of , "Pretty good, sister was a bitch, you?" Highly unimportant to the progression of this story—was drowned out by a massive crack of thunder, at which the girls around us let out shocked screams to be wound down by embarrassed giggles. Even Remus and I jump a little, and we grin at each other before he takes my trunk and lugs it from the cart. "Let's get your stuff inside," he tells me, "Looks like it's going to pour."

"Thanks," I say, still smiling, and follow behind, birdcage tucked under one arm and cat lounged about my shoulders.

Remus can go back through the people as effortlessly as he can go forward, and soon enough he is leading me down the aisle, peering absently through windows as he walks. "I think I saw Gemma and them in here somewhere," he murmurs.

I, busy as I am studying the breadth of his shoulders and round of his arse, say nothing.

Remus and I are just friends. Truly.

But he is a very good looking friend….

"Yeah!" Remus exclaims after a moment, stopping. "Here."

He slides open the door to a compartment on the left and tucks my trunk inside it, smiling and nodding to its occupants. "See you," he says to me, moving so I can get in and sliding past me to rejoin Sirius outside.

It was Gemma, and Grey to boot, both risen from their seats as I enter. "Lily!" Gemma cries, stepping forward in that melodic, careful way of hers to hug me hello.

She doesn't have to walk far, as my manner of movement isn't quite the same. Not a step, really. More of a bound. Like an over exited labadour. "Gemma!" I squeal, squeezing the life from her tiny body before leaning back to examine her in the critical way a mother does her twelve year old daughter. "You're gorgeous!" I proclaim after only a moment's once over, though the declaration wasn't entirely true. Poor thing, she'd done what she'd been threatening to do the past two years of our friendship.

She's dyed he ends of her hair blue. And I find it atrocious.

"My hair?" she asks shyly, twirling a strand about her finger.

"Its—interesting!" I squeak, octaves higher than my usual pitch.

Her smiled crackles, knowing I hate it.

"Well _I _like it," she says stubbornly.

"And isn't that all that matters? I say bracingly, squeezing her shoulders. "That _you_ like it?"

"I think it's sexy," A voice volunteers from behind her.

"Grey!" I all but shout, catapulting myself into his arms. "I love you!"

He chuckles, face flushing—as always. "You too," he mutters, sitting down—still holding me in his arms. Gemma follows his lead and sat on the seat opposite, eyelashes fluttering in amusement as she watches us.

"How was your summer?" I ask, disentangling myself from him to sit on his left, both arms around one of his.

Grey makes a face.

I snort. "Awful?"

He shook his head. "I hate my family," he says .

Gemma and I laugh. "That terrible?" I ask.

"My mom took us to Luxembourg this year!" He makes a face. "Luxembourg! I mean—who the hell wants to go to _Luxembourg_?"

Gemma giggles. "Yeah, that's…pretty bad," she concedes, "but my parents took brothers and me to America, and it was _disgusting. _ Brothers wanted to eat at every fast food place New York had to offer, I swear."

Gemma and Grey have this thing, you see, in which they try to outdo each other on who has the most heart wrenching rich kid sob story for a life. Gemma, with her evil twin brothers, or Grey, with his one. Both relationships have tons of animosity, I must admit, but personally I think it's a bit difficult for Gemma, whose parents are both highly acclaimed Healers, to complain when Grey's parents have now been divorced twice each.

But that's just my opinion. I also think that I should get to complain as well, living with muggles and therefore completely cut off from magic, not to mention an older sister that hates me. But, according to them, as my sibling is both female and older than me, I'm out of the running.

Granted, Gemma and Grey both have personalities that are much less tolerant of typical annoying brothers than my own. Being all into health and cleanliness and whatnot. Both of them like to say that they're vegitarians, neither actually is, and both would get highly offended if you ever dared to tell them that. Quite amusing, actually.

I zone out a bit as they begin to vent, leaning my head on Grey's shoulder and staring out the window. Remus was right—it is raining heavily out. We have about ten minutes until the train left, and I wonder idly if the others are stuck in the nasty weather and unable to reach King's Cross. Hopefully not, but if so their parents can always send an owl to Hogwarts explaining the situation.

Oh, wait. My friends know how to apparate. _They _passed the test.

Ugh.

In that moment, the door slid open again and Bethany Liming Bounces inside with even more enthusiasm than my own entrance, sopping wet and laughing as she pulls Gemma into a hug. "Hi, guys!"

"Bethy!" I squeal, rising with Grey and wait my turn before getting the life squeezed out of me. "You smell like a wet dog," I comment, spitting bits of her hair out of my mouth from the crook of her shoulder.

"Yeah?" Bethany snorts, letting me go. "Probably look like one, too. G ah!" She adds, tripping in surprise as another rumble over thunder falls over the sky, shaking the train.

I'm going to take this moment to explain to you the natures of my friends.

Gemma, poor dear, looks and behaves as if she were eleven years old. It is as if she's still under the impression that boys have cooties and that if someone found out you liked one of them your entire life would be over. She's very tiny, doesn't mess with her hair—save for her recent blueness—and only wore make-up in her fourth year when her face broke out like a pizza.

Grey is my absolute best friend in the entire world. He loves me more than anybody else. We can read each other like a book, and instead of running from me like I'm a fire-breathing dragon when I'm in a bad mood, he hovers like an obsessive parent and tries pointlessly to make it better. I do more of the same for him.

Bethany is _Gemma's _absolute best friend in the entire world, but then Bethany has a lot of those. She is one of those infuriating girls that has never been embarrassed, or even disliked, in her life. She makes fun of everything, is terrified of conflict and philosophy, and turns five second stories into twenty minute ones that annoy the hell out of you but somehow you always end up listening.

Like this one, for example. It involves a hippogriff, a hag, and her triplet younger sisters. You would think, wouldn't you, that a story such as that would be riveting?

"Does the weather affect train travel?" Gemma wonders, peering out the window.

"Not easily, I wouldn't think," Bethany says, plopping down next to her and getting her camera out. "Smile!" she says, snapping a picture of Grey and I unawares.

"Hey!" Grey protests. "We weren't ready!"

Bethany shrugs.

"Give me that!" Grey snatches it from her and turns it around so that the lense is facing us. "Look gorgeous," he commands, taking a do over. I giggle and put my hands over his, taking about three more as each of us strike surprise poses. Gemma and Bethany exchange glances, a familiar look in both their eyes.

Poor Gemma and Bethany. My relationship with Grey would make so much more sense to them—as it would with everyone—if they knew he was gay.

He wouldn't be opposed to telling them, I'm pretty sure. There was a time, actually, around the middle of sixth year, when he almost _did _tell Gemma. She liked him. As more than a friend, see. But I talked him out of it. I know he wants to come out by the end of this year, but something about the whole school knowing makes me very nervous. And believe me, it _will _be the whole school. You can't just tell your friends. News travels fast in a school filled with magical teenagers and old people with no lives of their own. I know these two will remain his friends, but what about the others? There are several I can think of in particular who will pretend he's never existed, and others still who will bully him—maybe even try to hurt him.

Then I'd have to kill them, which would get me expelled. And I'd rather that not happen till after the NEWTs, you know?

"So how was _your _summer, Lils?" Grey asks me as he puts a pair of bunny ear over my head. _Snap_.

"Um, you know," I say casually, ducking below range of the camera and rummaging through my purse. "The usual. Horrible sister, clueless parents, an infuriating and complete lack of flying objects…Oh." I sit up suddenly, as if just remembering something. "And this."

Beaming, I show them the Head Girl's badge.

Jaws—and a camera—drop to the floor.

I duck my head, half proud and half insulted by their obviously shocked reactions. They felt similarly when I got Prefect two years ago; I couldn't blame them for it then either. I am brilliant in Charms, Potions, and Defense. But I'm a hopeless case at Transfiguration and I don't do any extracurriculars, aside from the Slug Club—hardly counts—and there are other girls in our year who do all that I do and better, and more.

Doesn't make a lot of sense, really.

But you would think, wouldn't you, that a person's best friends could at least _pretend _they expected you to get it? At least _act _like they think you've got it in you? Because _I _think I do. It isn't as if I've killed myself to make the marks that I have, unlike others I could mention. I've barely tried at all, actually. I've probably only reached about two thirds of my full potential, and _that's _why Dumbedore picked me. Because he knows I've got the ability.

Not because he's finally gone crackers.

"That's great!" Bethany recovers suddenly, pasting a smile on her face and blinking at me blue-eyed. Her voice sounds like mine did when I told Gemma I liked her new hair.

"Thanks," I said dryly, sitting back against Grey, who gives my arm a squeeze. I know there's no point in trying to make a conflict from this with Bethany—or even trying to get her to share her feelings. She'd start crying and tell everyone I started yelling at her, poor dear. Terribly averse to conflict, as is Gemma. I feel a sudden pang for Dulcey, who I know will have no reservations at all in telling me exactly what she thinks of my new "honor". Chances are, I'll be offended.

Chances are, I'll appreciate it.

"Actually, guys, I've got to go now." I say, standing up before anyone can remind me of what I already know and make me feel like an idiot. "The Heads are supposed to meet up and discuss things while the prefects patrol."

"Who's the Head Boy?" Bethany asks.

"Dunno," I shrug, taking the single pace required to get me to the door. "Bye, guys!" I open my arms for another hug, this one group.

"Bye!"

"Bye Lily!"

"Bye, Lily."

"See you." I close the door behind me and begin walking down the hall just as the train starts, throwing me off balance. Being one of the most uncoordinated creature ever to grace the world with her existence on even the best of days, this minor altercation sends me grappling along the wall into what would have been the fall of the century, were it not for the unfortunate body I slam into.

Or the fortunate one, because unlike me it seems to have no trouble at all in keeping its balance. Or mine. An arm snakes around me from behind and keeps me from going any farther, laughing a little at my inexplicable display of grace. I can't help but note how large and muscled the body feels—definitely male. "All right, Evans?" it asks.

Oh no. Oh _no._

I scurry out of his grasp and twist around praying he was just on a trip to the loo and not—but no. The first thing I see is that glaring badge pinned to his chest, HB for Head boy.

Humungous Bighead, more like.

My eyes travel up from his chest, taking in the sickening confirmation of wild black hair and glasses. The eyes behind those glasses mock me as they have thousands of times before, and I feel my face getting hot.

"Potter."

.

So that's our little flashback. The "preface" I guess you'd call it, to all the hell that's broken lose since then and the reason none of us are allowed out of the country till we've written it all down. Well I'm about to tell you, misters or misses or whoever you are, there's a _lot _to write down. You don't even know the half of it. And _yes_, all of it is pertinent to the way things have ended up here, and _yes_, I am aware that this little preface of ours takes place a year ago and therefore gives us a hell of a lot of writing to do.

Just to let you know, the muggles do this sort of thing much better. A "statement" it's called? Yeah, well, muggles—or in muggle movies, anyway—there's a camera and two people sitting across from the person, listening intently to their every breath and keeping a record of it in about three different ways. But no, you guys, you just give us some ink and a quill and a hell of a stack of parchment and leave us all crammed in a room with each other to write it down.

Guess what? I happen to _like _writing. And for the bits I didn't directly witness, other certain occupants of this room happen to like talking—and correcting what I've written as they read it over my shoulder. So if you were hoping to drive me to confession an essay assignment, you've got another thing coming. I'm not going to confess, no matter what you say or do to me. Because it's not my fault.

It's my idiot husband's.

Ow! Okay, fine. My idiot husband's fault, _among others_.

But I'm not giving them away, either! I'm just going to write it all down, like you told me—the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, or some shit like that—and take my sweet time about it, too; you can't hold me in here against my will. I know my rights! Whenever I get bored of sitting here I'm going back home to my flat—with my idiot husband, wink wink!—putting my feet up, maybe have a cup of tea…then I'll write some more. And more, and more. Because like I said, there's a lot of writing to be done here.

But anyway. Back to the beginning.

I don't know why I was so surprised. It wasn't as if it hadn't occurred to me, a time or two, laying back on my bed wondering what could possibly go wrong during my final year now that I'd achieved the highest possible honor a female student could get. _James Potter_, I thought to myself, a pit of dread rounding itself into my stomach with a speed I wouldn't have thought possible, _could be chosen as Head Boy_. So highly gifted that even I was forced to admit it in both the athletic and academic department and from a family of massive influence to boot, James Potter, bane of my existence, was unfortunately in possession of a few qualities that may come into play when a Headmaster is choosing his Head Boy for the year.

But then I thought, _No way. Life couldn't possibly be so cruel._

And then the pit of dread would disappear, and I'd role over and go to sleep, and that would be that.

I never honestly considered the possibility that I would have to spend my final year at Howgwarts with _him. _ The big one. The one everybody waits for, when they run the school, answer to no one, and decide what they're going to do for the rest of their lives. The one _I _was going to be Head Girl during. I was going to be the Queen of Hogwarts!

But no. The Queen was stomped. Killed. Beheaded. Like the wives of old Henry, all those hundreds of years ago. She was good as dead the moment she set eyes on her King.

I'm calling the Queen setting eyes on her King a flashback, unfortunately, because it is the last clear memory I have for about a week, and you may be surprised to know that after that everything strings together with remarkable ease. _You _may be surprised. I am not. My seventh year is the year that _everything_, about about me and around me, changed, and I'm pretty sure I was running on a high of adrenaline ninety percent of the time. So it makes sense that I wouldn't remember that first week, when everything's exactly the same as all my other first weeks before it. Same ghastly mornings, same staggering workload—though admittedly some years it was more staggering than others, and this one topped the charts—same annoying Marauders and amusing friends and hurtful Slytheryns. Same everything.

I do apologize for just cutting you off, though. I'm sure you were absolutely riveted, just sitting at the edge of your seat thinking to yourself, _What's going to happen when Lily and this Potter jerk share a compartment?_

Well, sorry, buster, I already told you. I don't remember. But, because I remember nearly everything else that happens in the twelve months following, you can rest assured that you won't be so cruelly ripped from the seams of my oh-so dramatic life again. You can also rest assured that, seeing as I _don't _remember it, it was pretty boring anyway. Chances are I was all stiff and awkward and he was all relaxed and awkward—though only James Potter could manage relaxed and awkward at the same time—and the two of us awkwardly shared our awkwardness as we sorted out the patrol and meeting schedules, I waited for him to do something mean and selfish, and he waited for me to do something judgmental and uppity.

I'm sure that during the ride he _did _ do something mean and selfish, because I left the train in an unrememberable haze of I-can't-stand-Potter-ness and not in one of complete and total shock, which I _would _remember, and be glad to share with you. To be fair, I also probably did do something judgmental and uppity.

What can I say? We always did bring out the best in each other.

But no. My next memory is about a week later, when I had my first patrol with him. I remember it not because it was so exiting and everything, but because what happened _because _was. And, come to think of it, what caused it to happen in the first place was pretty exciting, too.

But I don't find out about that until much, much later.


End file.
